Chapter Twenty-Two.

Nezzick led me to an open port on the Duchess’ hull, where we passed another squad of irritated-looking guards that glared daggers at the old man. I waved sheepishly as we walked by, which they responded to with a chorus of quiet grumbles before ultimately letting us pass. Once outside, I nervously eyed the rickety-looking skiff and its array of spindly legs that were supposed to carry us the short distance over to where the villagers were encamped.

It looked like someone had found a wrecked boat around six meters long, broke it in half, and then built an ungodly mechanical assembly to tie the two halves back together again. Two pairs of segmented legs came out from each side of the ‘engine’, though they were folded down so we could board, and I briefly tried to see how the ship functioned. One look at the dizzying array of gears, rope, levers, pipes and glowy bits was more than enough to strangle any nascent curiosity I felt about how the walking skiff worked— dumping it squarely in the box of "things you need a PHD to understand".

Nezzick ignored my hesitation and scrambled up the side of the skiff with surprising dexterity for someone who looked old enough to fossilize. I followed with significantly less grace and much more painful wincing, but eventually made my way up.

The old man was the only other person on the deck with me, and he barely waited for me to clear the wooden railing before he yanked on a large lever that had the whole skiff shudder violently to its feet. The walking boat lurched forward as Nezzick forcefully yanked on the controls, the wooden gears groaning with the strain of getting us moving. I gripped the rail with white-knuckled fists to keep my balance while we tottered over to the village camp in a series of drunken sways that could possibly have been mistaken for walking.

And I thought the Duchess was a walking OSHA violation. These people are insane.

The shaman seemed inured to our vessel's stumbling gait and we quickly approached the camp. As we drew closer to the huddled assembly of vessels, I looked them over and saw a similar theme displayed throughout. They were all clearly salvaged from various wrecks and assembled afterward, varying wildly in both original construction and the ramshackle modifications the villagers made to piece things back together. It would have looked ratty if they’d just left things like that, but the people had made a remarkable effort to turn each vessel into an art piece around the imperfections.

Gaps in the wood had been mended with panels of woven reeds and then painted over with colorful, stylized geometric patterns that reminded me of old South American art. Wide bolts of cloth stretched into the air above them in similar patterns and colors, attached like sails to sturdy arms of wood. Dozens of vessels were clustered tightly around three much larger ones that were more intact than the others, towering protectively like sentinels in the mist. Rope bridges had been extended between them and a few even had crude platforms of rope and cloth suspended in the air between them to expand the living space. Which was very necessary, because every ship here was crowded as hell.

Hundreds of people were crammed together on the decks of every ship, fighting for space with haphazard piles of belongings that leaned precariously over their owners huddled below. The closer we got, the more a familiar sense of pressure returned. I’d gotten used to the presence of so many people while staying in Delmoth, but the feeling had dissipated when we left the crowded city. Now it was back, and I wanted to curse my enhanced senses as the impression of over three thousand people hit me all at once like a physical weight. It hung in the air like a cloud over the whole camp— a palpable aura of quiet despair accumulated from a thousand tiny instances of suffering and misery. But as we got closer, the sound I heard wasn’t what I expected.

Is that… music?

Notes of something like a guzheng carried on the swamp’s still air. The song was slow, melancholy and wistful. But somewhere buried deep in the melody was a strange feeling of… hope. I could feel with every plucked note the musician’s determination to convey that while things were bad, all was not lost yet. The people listening gripped that tiny offering of hope with desperate need, hanging almost feverishly onto every sound.

It only occurred to me after we stopped that this was the first music I’d heard since coming to Haven, and it felt… oddly fitting. As the notes rose and fell, I relaxed into the song and just listened for a bit. I’d never been an avid music listener before coming to Haven, but I had to chalk this up to ‘you don’t know what you have til it’s gone’, because this filled in a hole I didn’t even know was missing.

Under the influence of the soothing sounds, it felt like my head was clearing up from a fog of anger for the first time since I’d come here. Like a low-level headache that had been drifting in the back of my mind so long I didn’t even notice until it was abruptly gone. Suddenly, I had the clarity to think about the life I was currently living. It gave me a chance to examine myself and my actions lately, and I didn’t really care for what I found.

I've been so arrogant.

Some of it I could chalk up to just plain being on the defensive after getting stabbed in the back and murdered. But even that felt like an excuse. Before I’d been kicked into the Void, I’d been fully prepared to rip my way through the planet to get at Dezzahn— and to hell with anything that got in my way. Murgui’s warnings against using Anathema had been completely forgotten the instant my soul had healed enough that using it wouldn’t have killed me. If the Achorai’s Doom had taken just a few minutes longer to break free from the damaged ward, I might have been half way back to the Undersea before I figured out what I’d unleashed. By then, it would have been way too late to do anything about it. Yet another way that— if things had been ever so slightly different— I could have doomed the world.

I don't want to be like this… how do I fix it? How am I supposed to deal with having this kind of power?

My thoughts drifted back to the quiet fit I’d thrown after meeting Teadran in his cabin a few days ago, a renewed sense of guilt squeezing my chest as I remembered the contempt I’d felt for him when I stormed off. The truth was smacking me in the face— I wasn't handling power so much as spiraling violently out of control with it. And for some insane reason, these people wanted me to have more.

"Should I have it stopped?"

Jarred from my thoughts, I blinked owlishly at Nezzick's unexpected question.

"What?"

"The music. Does it displease you?" He asked fervently.

I immediately cringed and raised my hands to ward off the shaman's… enthusiasm.

"No no, not at all. It actually sounds really nice, I was just… thinking."

Looking back and forth between the crowded decks and Nezzick's intense features, I had to question all of this.

"Why? You don't know anything about me. You don't know who I am or even what I am, and yet want me to basically own these people. I am a terrible choice for any kind of protector— there's people even just in this caravan stronger than me. Why are you pushing this? What do you hope to accomplish?"

The shaman took my sudden topic change in stride, the fervent gleam vanishing into uncharacteristic seriousness.

"In your true form, do you intend to eat us?"

"What?? No!" I blurted out in shock.

"Torture us for your amusement? Make us fight for entertainment? Perhaps you would have us sacrifice our children for—"

"No! What the hell, man?" I cut him off.

"Then you would not be the worst we have served."

Falling silent, I stepped back from the old man as a wildness came over his wizened features.

"I am Shaman. It is my duty to stand between my people and the gods. To interact with them. To interpret their will and filter the needs of powerful beasts down for those who must serve them in order to survive. And for many, many years I have done whatever it takes to insure that survival. You think you are weak? You are on the Path, you have strength my people will never know and that strength will only increase. You ask me why? Look, Great One.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Spreading his arms, Nezzick’s gaze encompassed the entirety of the huddled village camp.

“Three-and-a-half thousand souls. You feel we are too many? We are less than a tenth of what we were just two weeks ago. An unceasing tide of ancient power now rises from the Deep Hollows, and it looks on us with pitiless eyes. The old ones are waking, and they have found their once-great kingdoms now ruled by vermin. They had no mercy for our gods, even less for we who served them.”

His voice rose with every word until he was practically shouting up at the sky, drawing frightened stares from the nearby villagers. I could feel panic rising from all of them nearby, spreading from person to person like a plague of emotion.

Ok, I have to stop this.

Quickly stepping forward, I caught one of his outstretched hands with mine and pulled it down.

“Dude, chill. You’re scaring people.”

The old man deflated like a popped balloon and started blinking in confusion as he came back to reality.

“Ah, uh… I— hmm.” He took a moment to collect himself with a twitchy shake.

“My apologies, Great One. I am… overwrought. We should hurry and find your servant."

The panic in the air began to subside back to the less volatile aura of despair it had been before we arrived, and if Nezzick wanted to just move on I was fine with that. However, a mote of concern found its way into my thoughts as I considered exactly who I'd sent to gather intel here.

"Did he get himself in trouble or something?"

Nezzick snorted.

"Hardly, Great One. The followers of the Wandering God are welcome almost anywhere, and few would turn down his blessing. I am more concerned that he will follow the long tradition of his patron and drink what little is left of our ale."

I couldn't help but chuckle in agreement.

Yeah that sounds about right.

Almost on queue, there was a shift in the music playing over the camp. It picked up in tempo, a smattering of drums now rumbling in tune with the faster beat. A few people perked up curiously at the change, though most seemed too shell-shocked to react much.

Following Nezzick through the twisting chaos of the camp, I got my first real look at the villagers. Their features were oddly similar to my own— vaguely asiatic, pale skin, dark hair and amber-colored eyes. Our looks were actually so similar that I couldn't help but wonder if they were the influence described in the 'flavor text' for my species.

"—They come into being fully grown with outer features fitting the locality of their birth—"

It fit with these people being the locals of the area, even if it did mean that I was getting weird looks as we walked by. Everyone kept a respectful distance from Nezzick though, so our trip was mostly unimpeded as we made our way onto the deck of one of the big galleons. A burst of laughter came from a throng of people scattered in a loose circle, dispelling some of the gloomy atmosphere. Craning my neck to see, my first guess was… yep, Leigh.

He was leaning back, dramatically clutching his chest with one hand while chugging out of a wooden mug with the other.

“Thy arrows strike too true! I shall retreat, fair maiden, while I still have skin un-flayed.” Leigh shouted out as he finished his drink, causing another round of laughter from the villagers. He’d apparently been speaking to a woman in a diaphanous purple dress seated at one edge of the circle— her hands cradling the guzheng I’d been hearing and rolling her eyes at the priest’s antics while she continued to play.

A few people had started dancing at the up-tempo music, though there was an edge of desperation to the simple movements. Leigh caught sight of me through the crowd and began navigating his way over while carefully not spilling his ale.

“Speak with your man, Great One. I will be near if my presence is required.” Nezzick said with a bow.

I nodded at the old man, slightly alarmed at my own quick acceptance of his servile behavior as he stepped back and disappeared. That quickly faded from my mind as I stood there, surrounded by people that began diving into the music almost feverishly. The more I watched, the less it seemed like a dance and more like a chaotic dirge. Tears streamed down more than one face even as they swirled around to the happy tune, their loose clothing covered in geometric patterns that blended together from the frenetic movements. The more I watched, the more uncomfortable I felt standing there; like I’d walked into someone’s funeral and now had a front-row seat to a stranger’s grief.

“Rough, isn’t it?” Leigh said, finally reaching me. “I’ve had some tough crowds before but these people… it’s something else.”

“Hmm.” I grunted, frowning thoughtfully. “Have you found anything out yet?”

“Plenty. Take a walk?” He answered.

I nodded, and we set out along the old ship’s railing until we found a spot separated by piles of belongings into a zone of rough seclusion.

“So… where to begin.” Leigh rubbed his chin with one hand. “Everything the shaman said about fate? All bullshit. These people are on the run, pure and simple.”

He leaned back on the rail, sipping at the ale and shaking his head.

“The question is who’s bullshit, and I think I’ve got it. Some background information; in the heart of the swamp, there’s a Rift— what we call a chasm stretching down into the Hollows. There’s a pretty established pecking order to the beast lords around it that’s been stable for a long, long time. A few weeks ago, however, some real old monsters started crawling their way out of the pit. Lot of them matched stories from the villagers’ oral tradition, but there was something wrong with all of them. There were no territorial displays or challenges, no attempt to integrate or even usurp the local order. They just came out of the dark and started slaughtering everything nearby. Two weeks ago, that slaughter included Kurkulakoa’s mate. Griffons mate once and for life, so this drove him nearly insane with grief, but the big birds have a sense of honor that demanded he care for what remained of his ‘claim’, including the surviving villagers he’d taken in.”

Leigh paused, swirling the ale in his cup as he considered how to continue while I grimaced at how the timing of all this continued to match up with my adventures in the Deep Hollows.

There is something bigger going on here, and I’m getting more sure I had something to do with it.

Finishing his ale, Leigh continued.

“To recap what happened from an outside perspective, the Windstalker was challenging Telm’Urka by attacking your group. If he’d won, he would have taken over the area, and by losing he would forfeit his existing claim. However… there wasn’t even the slightest chance he would win, and the Windstalker knew that. It was a suicide, one that you just had the bad timing to be caught in the middle of. You winning though, gave Telm’Urka an opportunity to offload a bundle of refugees that he had neither the time nor resources to actually care for. He waved his claws and declared his ‘recognition’ of your acts, and since he’s— by a lot— the strongest lord in the swamp, the people have no choice but to just go with it.”

“Can’t we just send them back?” I asked.

“Nope. That’s where this gets nasty, politically speaking. They’ve been stripped of their godsigns, which is tantamount to exile in their culture— a death sentence. It’s effectively saying that either they make their way with you, or they disburse into the swamp because they are not welcome back.”

Frustrated, I rubbed at my temples and sighed when a thought occurred to me.

“If they’re that desperate for me to ‘claim’ them, why the hell did Nezzick basically annoy me into almost blasting him to death?”

“Uh… probably because he’s the original Kurkulakoa shaman. You killed his god, and it was probably his plan to force Telm’Urka to take all the villagers in with that challenge. If you hadn’t been there, then the Windstalker would have died honorably and protected his people by doing so.”

“Ah.” I said, lamely.

I can make the rest of the connections from there.

The villagers’ situation was bad. It looked like they had plenty of supplies for now, but that was only because there were just a fraction of their original numbers left alive. If I turned them out, their odds of survival dropped to zero. In the span of a few weeks, they’d lost basically everything they had. Life seemed intent on kicking them while they were down as well, because instead of being sent to a hero or some champion with the skills to help— they’d been sent to me. Which forced me to drastically reevaluate my own situation.

I arrived here last week with what I thought was absolutely nothing to my name; no friends, no family, no real assets. I’d been tossed in a random cave butt-naked and— I’d recently discovered— with a target on my back. All I had was the singular goal of ‘revenge’ and a whole lot of anger. It had taken me a bit, but my talk with Teadran and just seeing these people today had really brought the reality of my new life to the foreground.

The truth was that I had luxuries most of these people would kill for, and I'd only been here a week. My situation was immeasurably better than most of them by the simple fact that I was able to do something about it. I had literally all the time in the world— which was somewhat terrifying— and the worst thing that could happen is that I die again. Which would suck, but I’d get over it. The only real difficulty I’d have would be finding a way back to Haven from the afterlife after my excessively effective bridge-burning with the Fisher’s Guild, but even then, I had time.

If it took me a few years, a few centuries or hell, even a few millennia to figure out how to make interdimensional portals then that’s what I had to do. It meant that I might only have one shot on Haven without risking everyone vanishing into history while I figured things out, but that was more than pretty much anyone else was gonna get.

I still wasn’t ok, but I could try to live from here.

As for the villagers… I still wasn’t sure. There had to be other options than either ‘own them’ or ‘sentence them all to die’. But right now it was in my power to help, and as a very old being once told me:

“You have power now, friend Kosimar. With power, comes choice. Choose better.”

I just hoped I was making the right choice.